


Under The Lights Of The Grand Paris

by ThatVermilionFlyCatcher



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, F/M, Observer narrator, coffee shop AU, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-26
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-12-20 06:25:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11915073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatVermilionFlyCatcher/pseuds/ThatVermilionFlyCatcher
Summary: Non magic AU.The old cafés hide in the cloud of their mystery hundreds of little wonderful stories. In this case, it is the story of a certain Belle French and a certain Mr. Gold.





	Under The Lights Of The Grand Paris

**Author's Note:**

  * For [marychovny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/marychovny/gifts).
  * A translation of [Un Café en el Grand Paris](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11593830) by [ThatVermilionFlyCatcher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatVermilionFlyCatcher/pseuds/ThatVermilionFlyCatcher). 



> The café in this story resembles the typical confiterías or viennese cafés that were common on the first half of the XX century in Buenos Aires and Montevideo (But the story happens nowadays).
> 
> As English is not my first language, I apologize for any mistakes you may find in this fic. Grammar, vocabulary and spelling corrections are more than welcome.

 

My friend Jefferson is what a nineteenth century novel would describe as “eccentric”. I will never forget the day he called me at half past three in the morning to tell me that he had inherited a cafe from a distant aunt of him. It is true that he had just received the news and that it was eight o’clock in the morning where he was at that moment, but maybe and only maybe he should be aware that not all his acquaintances enjoy travelling all the time as much as he does. Specially taking into account the width and variety of the group of people he considered “friends”. Back to our topic, that might have been one of the few good news to be told at such intempestive hours of the night.

Jefferson and I met when he was in drama school and I was starting the second semester of my teaching degree. We were introduced by a friend we had in common, who thought that we were the most “eccentric” people in his acquaintance and as such he decided it was his duty to introduce us to each other. I won’t deny that by the end of that party I considered Jefferson my friend. On that same night we struck the deal that forged our friendship: once a month, on a saturday morning, we would tour old bookstores and finish our trip at one of the cafés of the city.

Around a year before that unforgettable phone call, on a warm september saturday, the joy of our hangout was clouded by the news of the closing of the Grand Paris. It was one of our favorite cafés: its refined wooden furniture, weared by the wind of time and use, its old paintings, its constant scent of roasted grain, its coat rack and its big windows that onlook the street lured the soul into trying to uncover its mysteries and get glimpses of the hundreds of stories of which it had been mute witness.

At this point the reader might have guessed that the heirloom of my friend was nothing but this worthy café. A week after, there I was, a broom in my hand, a cloth on my shoulder and the radio blasting in a corner, trying not to bump into any of Jefferson’s friends as we cleaned the floor and made the tables shine. Two more weeks and there I was, wearing my sunday best for the grand reopening of the Grand Paris. Jefferson had friends not only to do the cleaning, but also to lend money to make the business run. The advantages of being an “eccentric” man, I suppose.

Whenever I have a bad day, as, for example, today, or a good day - I don’t remember when was the last one - I show up at the Grand Paris and sit at “my” table, the one at the back, beside the window. From this spot I have an overview of the patronage, which makes me desire to have not only the gift of enjoying good literature, but the ability to write it. The café isn’t but the node in which the lives of several individuals cross paths; it is a place in which we can observe without feeling observed; it treasures bits of our lives that could be made into thousands of untold stories.

There, at the table under the facsimile of _La Cumparsita_ , _don Walter_ and _don Antonio_ play domino, as usual. The third chair, now empty, reminds us melancholily that _doña Elvira_ isn’t there anymore, draped in her otter coat and telling her husband which is the best move for him to make. Two tables closer to me, _Mrs. Etcheverry_ , the notary, who only drinks boldo tea and has a passion for everything mauve green, settles the details of a deed with one of her clients. Close to the door, Pablo, in his flawless grey suit, puts off the arrival to a cold house by having a cappuccino and a piece of cake. When tears stream down his face is because he is recalling what his wife told he once: he tries to convince himself that whenever he smiles, Alejandra and his little ones, Melina and Sara, wherever they are, are smiling with him.

Besides the occupied tables, many empty ones reveal the ghost of those old times in which the Grand Paris was crowded all day long. In our days, as it is, the patronage is rather meager and it only takes a week to get to know, at least by sight, every habitué. That’s why my attention is caught when I see a man that is clearly a first time visitor of the Grand Paris. In spite of his cane, or maybe precisely because of it, his gait is full of presence and decision: the one of a man who knows his every step and every inch of the ground he steps on. He wears a black suit that shows the careful eye of a man of taste and the gifted hand of a good tailor. A burgundy tie and matching pocket square betray that he is not just another businessman. The curtain of his long tidy hair, slightly silvered by the snows of time, hide and show a pair of intelligent and lively eyes. The fine line of his lips and the daring shape of his chin and his nose manifest an impatient temperament and a strong will. In spite of all this, there’s a certain air in him that leaves one wondering if there’s something else behind the impressive front.

The newcomer chooses a table in the middle of the room and sits with his back to the column behind the table. When he lifts his hand to call the waiter I notice in his hand an enormous golden ring with a big blue stone set in it. This gesture, as each and every one of his, is gauged yet nimble and elegant. I know how I am to call him, at least until I get to know his name: Mr. Gold.

 

***

 

Today is the sixth time in a row that I come to the café and Mr. Gold shows up too. When can we say that someone is no longer a casual customer but a patron? In any case, I have acquired new insights into my mysterious personage. The first thing that I discovered is that he is Scottish. Some accents are unmistakable. On the other hand, even if he spends quite a time at the café, he doesn’t usually read or write. All his attention seems to be fixed on a series of sad or bitter thoughts, if I let myself be carried away by the impression I get when I see him fidgeting with the spoon, the napkins or the sugar sticks. Anyone would say he was a manual worker, even if his outfit seemed to contradict the very idea of it: the nimbleness of his thin, long fingers makes one think of a jeweler, a magician or a tailor. Maybe the jeweler. Or is he an antiquarian? In any case, Mr. Gold always sits at the same table and orders a long Irish coffee and a ham and cheese sandwich.

I am distracted now by a doubting figure standing on the door, someone I haven’t seen before either. I can’t decide if she looks like a character escaped from a parisian romance or a ballerina in her best costume. She wears an electric blue cardigan under a checkered jacket, short brown leather skirt and burgundy tights and pumps. A fantasy patterned scarf, a burgundy beret and brown leather bag and gloves complete her outfit. Her blue eyes study the cafe with curiosity rather than fear as she hugs a notebook and a stack of papers that look like copies from a book.

She finally decides to cross the threshold and after much looking she choses the table on the corner between the counter and the bathrooms. A cozy corner, no doubt, but not a quiet one for someone who wants to study, she will find out sooner than later. Mr. Gold doesn’t raise his eyes when she passes in front of him, but it is clear that he notices her. The girl takes off her jacket and her beret and she looks like she doesn’t know what to do with them. It is clear now: this isn’t just her first time at the Grand Paris: it is her first time at a place of this kind. I gesture towards _don Estéfano,_  who understands my meaning perfectly. _Don Estéfano_ is a friend of Jefferson  - Did I tell you that my friend has many friends? - that worked his whole life as a waiter and, in spite of being retired, had agreed to be back under the spotlight, this time more of a manager than just a waiter.

 _Don Estéfano_ , a gentleman, as always, helps her with the chair, takes her jacket and her beret and asks her what would she like to have. The waiter produces his tranquilizing effect and a smile appears on the girl’s face, making it look even prettier. Now I have a name for the newcomer of the parisian outfit: Belle.

I turn back to my papers with a sigh. I read a student shamelessly say that Plato was a Roman. When I raise my eyes again _don Estéfano_ is leaving on Belle’s table a teapot, a teacup and two sweet croissants. It is the special offer Jefferson was confident was to appeal to college students. It seems like it might work after all. The girl tilts the teapot over the cup and frowns when it pours hot, clean water. Mr. Gold, without turning his head, flashes a sly grin that doesn’t go unnoticed by the girl. She blushes and when I think she is going to throw a sugar stick at his head, _don Estéfano_ comes to her with the tea box, feigning ignorance of what she just did. The tension is resolved and I go back to my task and to fretting over the youth and the future of mankind.

When I cannot stand it any longer, I go back to the scene unfolding in front of my eyes and that I find much more interesting. Belle has finished her tea and watches nervously the coming and going of _don Estéfano_. It is quite clear that she doesn’t know how to call his attention and ask him for the bill. While I am deciding if I should intervene again or not, I hear the sound of a throat clearing, coming from Mr. Gold’s table. The girl turns to look at him as he beckons the waiter to close his bill. I know that he doesn’t need to do so. Those who are regulars just leave the cost and the tip on the table and leave. Mr. Gold pays and leaves, and Belle, with raised spirit, does the same. A few minutes later she has disappeared behind the doors too. When my time to leave comes, I consider that I should increase the frequency of my visits to the Grand Paris. For no particular reason, of course.

 

***

 

The rain pours forming a little rapid against the sidewalk. The dark figure of Mr. Gold passes in front of my window under the protection of a black umbrella. It isn’t until he sits and stretches his bad leg that I realize the origin of the dark cloud that colours his countenance: humidity certainly isn’t good for his injured foot.

Not many minutes pass before Belle enters at full speed, half of her clothes drenched despite her umbrella. It was clear that, confronted with the decision, she would always choose to protect her papers instead of her clothing. On her run towards the bathroom in order to better her appearance, she doesn’t notice the pool left by a careless client’s umbrella beside Mr. Gold’s table. It is a split second between she slides off, the hand of the golden ring takes hers and she falls on his lap. By muscle memory the man puts both arms around her, as if to avoid falling with her.

Struck. The girl is still panting. She looks at him with eyes as wide as his. I don’t know if it is because the second part of Cité Tango is playing in the background - maybe I should tell Jefferson to stop playing Piazzola all day long - but time seems to stop as the two strangers look into each other eyes by the first time and are strangers no longer, under the golden lights of the café, the street as dark at five o’clock as if it were the late evening. Neither of them seem to notice that the eyes of all the present are on them. The spell is finally broken when Belle manages to say a word of thanks in a weak voice and he helps her get on her feet. It takes several minutes for Mr. Gold to recover his stern facade, but by the time Belle is back from the bathroom and looks in his direction, he has hidden himself behind a newspaper. The girl sighs heavily as she sits and orders the same as always.

 

***

 

Today another kind of cloud hovers over Mr. Gold; the weather is sunny and dry, and rather warm for this time of the year, and therefore it has nothing to do with humidity and his bad leg. However, there isn’t a single pop of color in his whole outfit. The tie and the pocket square have transitioned from burgundy to black. His countenance is surlier than usual. My heart skips a beat when he orders a cappuccino and a piece of chocolate cake. His eyes have the same shiny look of Pablo’s when that day of the year is around the corner… My eyes dart from Mr. Gold to Belle, and I can see she sees the same thing I see.

Next thing, the man is flinching because the girl has just sat at his table and is asking him something about the papers she has in her hands. He hesitates, turns several pages, clears his throat and finally starts to recite with his mesmerizing Scottish accent:

 

_Fate gave the word, the arrow sped,_

_And pierc'd my darling's heart;_

_And with him all the joys are fled_

_Life can to me impart._

 

_By cruel hands the sapling drops,_

_In dust dishonour'd laid;_

_So fell_ _the pride of all my hopes,_

_My age's future shade._

 

_The mother-linnet in the brake_

_Bewails her ravish'd young;_

_So I, for my lost darling's sake,_

_Lament the live-day long._

 

_Death, oft I've feared thy fatal blow._

_Now, fond, I bare my breast;_

_O, do thou kindly lay me low_

_With him I love, at rest!_

 

His voice faltered when he reached the middle of the poem, but the line of his chin became sterner and he pushed forward until the end. When the last verse gave way to silence on the empty café - there isn’t anyone else in the room apart from them, _don Estéfano_ and I - Belle puts her hand on his, but Mr Gold, avoiding eye contact, jerks his hand away, picks his belongings and leaves without a word.

 

***

 

At long last, after several weeks of absence, I see Belle crossing the threshold of the café. When she passes in front of Mr. Gold’s table, now empty, she slows her pace. Her lips quiver when she covertly touches the edge of the table. She takes sit at her usual corner, looking tinier than ever, hunched over her rumpled copies.

 

***

 

Another week has gone by and I, that have lost all hope of seeing Mr. Gold again, see him show up as if only yesterday he were here having his Irish coffee and his sandwiches. But nothing is as it was before. I cannot decide which one moves to compassion the most: she, with her circumspect air or he with his desperate attempts of not showing the guilt that is eating him inside.

 

***

 

After several more weeks, we have come to the starting point again. Jefferson sits in front of me and looks at me for several seconds in silence. Suddenly, he says:

"If this were as hard as these two make it to be, we would be extinct by now."

I look at him and arch my eyebrows.

"Don’t tell me that you aren’t watching this soap opera as much as I do," he adds.

I close my eyes, shake my head and give him an annoyed snort.

"I knew it. Don’t deny that Andreas Gold and Belle French are made for one another."

I shudder when I hear the names and I try not to think about the strange coincidence.

"They are friends of yours? They aren’t patrons but friends that come to help you hold up your business?!"

"All of the above," he says, shrugging.

I look at him for two or three seconds. As much as I love Jefferson, he can drive me up a wall.

"When they enter and sit at a table, they are new clients. Once you have spoken to them, they have become friends" I solve the riddle in a bored tone of voice. I cannot recall how many times he has told me something on those lines.

"You know me well," he answers with a smile that makes me think of the Cheshire cat. Jumping from the chair, he passes by my side and says on my ear: "Don Estéfano and I are running a bet. We are open to a third bidder, if you are interested."

At long last he is gone and I turn to my papers again.

 

***

 

Today Mr. Gold has broken his routine again. The Irish coffee with sandwiches has been replaced by a _submarino_. _We, the lonely men, do not have birthdays_ , I tell myself, feeling my irritation for his behaviour of weeks ago melt into sympathy. You have to experience it to understand how it feels.

When I look to Belle, I discover that she has seen the same thing I did. The ability this girl has of reading the old man as if he were one of her books astonishes me. However, she stays where she is, sneakily flashing from time to time a compassive look in his direction. My mind zooms again into the tests I am grading and I cross out with a sigh - for the umptenth time today - an _acheive_ and write over it: _achieve._

An unusual movement brings me back to the café. _Don Estéfano_ has left a piece of chocolate, cinnamon and almonds cake on Mr. Gold’s table and the man looks at him surprised. The waiter adds a couple of words and returns to the counter. Belle, that has just finished picking her things, passes by his table and addresses him with one of her bright smiles saying loudly:

 _"_ Happy birthday!"

Mr. Gold doesn’t manage to do anything but blush and follow with his eyes the beauty as she left the café. Once recovered from the surprise, a smile appeared in his face, the first wide, sincere smile I get to see there. He looks like a child who has been just kissed on the cheek by the girl he fancies. He suddenly looks around him and I plunge myself into my papers, stealing, however, a look of him from time to time. He takes his phone from his pocket and takes a picture of the cake before bingeing on it with gusto and finishing it in a blink.

 

***

 

Today I’m trying to sport my most indifferent face, even if I know that I am a terrible actress. Finally I see Belle on the corner of my eye. She is standing in front of my window, looking for something on her purse to no avail and sighing. She spent the money of today’s tea in the piece of cake she bought for Mr. Gold yesterday. _Don Estéfano_ , who is serving my coffee, motions her to enter. The girl blushes and refuses the invitation. He insists vehemently and she finally yields. When at last she enters and sees her table, she can’t help but give a surprised exclamation. The pages of the newspaper on Mr. Gold’s table turn abruptly.

Belle slowly approaches her table as if trying to convince herself that it is real. A big teapot full of hot water, several tea sachets of different kinds, assorted sandwiches, sweetmeats, chocolates and at least four different flavours of cake were placed on the table. In the middle of it, a crystal vase with a red rose in it rested behind a book. Belle hugs the blue volume and turns towards the figure of Mr. Gold, still hidden behind his newspaper. She rolls her eyes with a playful grin and picking a tray from the counter, she starts to place the treats on it. Then she loudly places it on Mr. Gold’s table and sits beside him. With her chirpy voice she calls the waiter:

"Don Estéfano, another cup, please!"

Mr. Gold, surprised, lowers his newspaper and before he can do anything, Belle hugs him and plants a kiss on his cheek. I try with all my might not to look at them… at least not too much. I smile when he steals a bit of her cake and she gets revenge by having a huge gulp of his mint tea.

And as I smiled then I smiled on that other afternoon, when they sat on their new corner and he read for her from the blue book. On a moment he was reading _My Luv Is Like A Red, Red Rose_ and on the next the book had been dropped and his mouth was engaged in a much more pleasant task - for him and her, not for the ones who were enjoying his beautiful reading voice. By the looks of it, _don Estéfano_ was also pleased with the circumstances, as he saved in his pocket the roll of bills that Jefferson covertly had given him.

And I also smiled like an idiot when they came to celebrate that the physiotherapy sessions of Mr. Gold’s leg were over. I kept smiling as I watched them dance _Come Under My Plaidie_ , each bump into a table triggering a roar of laughter, as if they were teenagers.

Of course, as soon as the song ended, Mr. Gold gave a little envelop to Jefferson and I was shoved with _don Estéfano_ into the kitchen. I cried from behind the scratched glass - as I was the only lady of the group I had the privilege of having a whole door window for myself - as Mr. Gold got on one knee and asked her to marry him. I kept crying as she helped him up and he put the ring in her hand, and even more when she plunged her hands into his hair and he held her by her waist and they kissed passionately yet tenderly. I haven’t seen anything the like in my whole life.

Now I cry and laugh, wearing my waitress uniform - the things we do for our friends - when I see them in the middle of the improvised dance floor - we just pushed the tables to the sides to make the necessary room for dancing - having their first dance as husband and wife.

She shines on a tea length white dress, the off shoulder neckline enhancing her beautiful features. Long dress gloves, white pumps and a golden tiara complete her outfit and I wonder if it is possible to look lovelier than her tonight. The groom is dressed on a blue suit that highlights the beautiful shade of his hair, his shining eyes lost into his bride’s. And I laugh and I cry as I see them spin again and again under the pearly lights of the big chandelier. I sigh dreamily and think to myself that no true love story, of those full of brave princes, magnificent castles, fairies and all kinds of fantastic creatures, compares to the hidden love of the copies’ girl and the man of the cane dancing under the lights of the Grand Paris, on a forgotten corner of a city asleep under the mantle of the stars and the dim silvery light of the moon.

**Author's Note:**

> The poem recited by Mr. Gold is A Mother's Lament For the Death of Her Son, by Robert Burns.
> 
> A submarino is a hot drink served at cafés in Argentina and Uruguay. It consists of a tall glass of almost boiling milk and a piece of dark chocolate. You sink the chocolate on the milk (that's why it is called a "submarine") and stir it with a spoon. The beverage turns into hot chocolate, with a sludge of melted chocolate at the bottom.
> 
> Constructive criticism? Suggestions? Questions? Leave me a comment!


End file.
